


bones burning inside

by klari19



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autumn, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, M/M, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9281996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klari19/pseuds/klari19
Summary: Two men, a piano, brown leaves on the ground.An unexpected encounter, a breathtaking connection.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamadilite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamadilite/gifts).



> Hey there Dirk!! 
> 
> One of the perks of being part of the team of moderators of the exchange is that I have access to **a l l** the applications, and I know who's missing a gift and who isn't. So when I saw that you had requested Sheith (!!!) and, quote, "any fantasy or modern au" I had a non-religious epiphany because, boi, AUs are what I live for.
> 
> This fic I wrote for you is based on an idea I'm very fond of. One that sprouted in my head during fall, but which I thought I'd never be motivated enough to write. I'm very glad that I was given the opportunity to write it for you.
> 
> The canadian city I live in has a "public pianos project" during Summer and most of Fall each year. One day, as I was going back home from class, I passed by one of those pianos, which was located very close to where I live. I was instantly drawn by the beautiful way the person played, and I couldn't get the melody and the feeling of the moment out of my head for a few days after that. And that's how I began thinking about Shiro as a mysterious pianist and Keith as the mesmerized spectator. 
> 
> The original idea was a little diffrent, much longer and ansgtier (with a good ending, though), but I thought it would be best to switch things up and make this a light, feel-good fic. I hope you enjoy this, even though it's so very late. Happy 2017!
> 
> @ everyone: in this, Keith is 19 and Shiro is 25.
> 
> PS: this isn't beta'ed/edited, I'm very sorry.

It all begins one Friday afternoon as Keith is walking back to his apartment after a long day at University. He’s strolling through the small park between the metro station and the small apartment building he lives in, gazing down at the ground which is beginning to be covered with red, orange, and brown leaves. The air is crisp and dry, and it feels rather pleasant, if just a tad cold, as it brushes Keith’s cheeks. The trees overhead are the houses of small birds chirping happily as if celebrating the end of another day of fall. And coming from the center of the park…

Music. Piano music, more specifically.

Keith’s head perks up, all his senses rendered acute by the beauty of the melody. His eyes immediately move to the side, trying to get a visual confirmation that something—or rather, someone—is really playing in the park. His feet move on their own accord, deviating from their usual path home the next time there’s a cross, and in just a few seconds lead him to the heart of the park.

The public piano, which was used all summer by rather unimpressive players, in Keith’s honest opinion as a humble bassist, is now being pushed beyond its limits by the skillful fingers of a man who—surprisingly—doesn’t look much like a musician.

Keith doesn’t step into the wide circle at the middle of which the piano sits, and instead stays in the shadow of the skeletal trees. He gazes at the back of the piano man with wide, avid eyes.

The man’s broad shoulders are enclosed by a dark gray wool coat; the belt at its middle pulls the fabric tight around the man’s waist. His hair is a deep black, shaved at the sides and trimmed short at the top… and when the man tilts his head backwards in a surge of musical emotion, Keith notices a longer part at the front—which is completely white. Sadly, he can’t see his hands from where he stands, far behind the man.

Time passes by without Keith taking notice of it. He feels transported to another, different reality by the various melodies played by the man; a reality where time doesn’t exist and music is the goddess of all life. Sometimes the man plays slow, melancholic pieces, and then seamlessly drifts into more joyful ones, never missing a single note. Keith watches and feels the emotion put into the music, the man’s entire body swaying to the rhythm of his fantastic… divine music.

A loud ringing.

Keith blinks and his conscience is aggressively thrown back into reality when he realizes _his damn phone is ringing and disturbing the musical moment_. He furiously takes his phone out of his pocket and answers, turning away from the man at the piano just as the latter one stops playing and gazes back to see what’s happening.

Keith curses under his breath. “What?!” he inquires in a whispered shout, walking around the inside of the wide circle with the piano to reach another path to get to his place.

“Wow,” Pidge’s voice says. “What’s got you so salty already, Keith?” There’s a hint of laughter and no bite in their voice, though.

“Nothing, just… Long day of class,” he lies. He’s not up to admitting that he wanted to listen (and watch the man) for a little longer. “What’s up?”

“Mmm, I see. Well, Matt just wanted to know when would practice be okay for you…”

As Keith speaks with his friend through the phone, the gleam of something that must be metal catches the corner of his eye. He turns his gaze to the side and looks at the piano man once more. From his position, he can now see his profile and—his hands. One is made of flesh, and the other…

“Keith, are you listening to me?” Pidge’s annoyed voice asks.

“Uh, yeah. Your brother’s free on Tuesday, right?”

There’s a loud, long sigh transmitted over the line. Keith winces; he can almost see Pidge shaking their head. “Thursday,” they correct, and continue where they’d left off.

✧✧✧

Over the next week, as Keith cuts through the park each afternoon to get back home after class or after practice with Matt, there’s no one at the piano. Keith can’t help but feel a little—down. Just a little. But he reckons that the temperature is slowly getting colder, and that it must be difficult to play outside in these conditions.

It’s Friday again, and as Keith enters the park he begins to let the matter go away from his thoughts, resigning himself to probably seeing the piano man once more during the next summer, maybe.

But then he hears it again. That beautiful, enchanting music.

He can’t prevent a small gasp from escaping through his lips as he quickly shuffles back to the spot he occupied the previous time. But this time, he doesn’t stay there. Slowly, he walks around the edge of the circle, passing by one leaf-covered bench after another, keeping sight of the man from the corner of his eye. He sees the hand—the robotic hand he’d caught only a glimpse of last time—and is truly astonished by the man’s will to keep playing even though he’s disabled.

There’s a bench, thankfully not covered with leaves, that’s not in front of the piano but not behind it either. Keith takes it as his seat, hoping that it doesn’t seem too obvious that he wants to listen to the man playing—and maybe discreetly watch him, too. However, when he looks to the sides, he realizes that the park is… empty. He ducks his head, suddenly feeling a little bashful even though the man doesn’t seem to have noticed anything, and takes out his literature book from his backpack. Maybe that’ll help make it all a little less—intimate.

Truth be told, Keith doesn’t read more than a sentence of his book. In fact, he re-reads that same sentence a few dozen times, its meaning slipping from him each time because _all of him_ is trained towards the music coming from the piano.

It’s only when he remembers that the time to call his parents—who live in Seoul—is quickly approaching that he forces himself to get up and leave.

Keith doesn’t notice that the eyes of the piano man, softened by a small smile, follow him for a little while as he makes his way out of the park.

✧✧✧

“Hey, Pidge,” Keith says while taking off his shoes. He’s at the Holt family household, where he and Matt will practice a few songs for a little while before getting back into their Uni projects. Pidge’s head pops into the entrance corridor upon hearing their name. “I have a, uh… question,” Keith hesitates, slowly padding into the house towards Pidge.

“That doesn’t sound good, but go ahead,” they say.

Keith flops down on the living room sofa next to Pidge. “Would it be possible for you to find someone if I tell you how they look like?” Now that he’s said it out loud he feels like a creep. He pinches his lips in a tight line, hoping that Pidge doesn’t catch on his conflictive thoughts. But they always do.

“What on Earth have you been up to, Keith Kogane,” they sigh, shaking their head. “And, nope. Can’t do that. I’d need at least a name. Or a phone number.”

Keith is glad that Pidge doesn’t question him further on the matter. He nods in understanding. “Thanks.”

Pidge looks like they want to say something. But just as they open their mouth, the front door opens to let Matt inside. Keith lets out a minute breath of relief, and waves at Pidge as he goes to join Matt at the door.

✧✧✧

The following Friday, Keith has a feeling that the piano man will be at the park, the same he’s been there for the past two Fridays. It’s like a pattern has been created.

So it’s a surprise when Keith, first, doesn’t hear the music upon getting into the park and, second, doesn’t see the man either when he gets closer to the piano. Keith frowns, trying to conclude something. Maybe it truly got too cold for the man to comfortably play outside? Maybe he had an appointment somewhere? …Maybe he’s simply running late?

Shaking his head, Keith huffs laugh. Why does he care so much anyway? It’s not like he was to meet the man… But Keith admits that something has been drawing him on ever since that first Friday afternoon, and he truly wishes he could listen to him play again.

Keith ghosts his fingertips over the keys, which have been rendered smooth from years and years of being used by random musicians, and turns to leave—

—only to be met face to face with the person he’d (lowkey) been waiting for.

“Hey,” the piano man says, his lips pulled up into a soft curve.

A large scar crosses over the bridge of the man’s nose. Keith’s gaze, however, is drawn into the depth of the man’s gray eyes.

“Uh, hey,” Keith mumbles, and hopes that the man understood. For reasons unknown to him, his brain is threatening to shut down and his heart rate is going through the roof.

Seemingly oblivious to Keith’s internal condition, the man speaks again. “Do you play?”

“Uhm,” Keith clears his throat, trying to make sense of the question he’s been asked. “I play the bass, yeah.”

The man chuckles gently at that, and Keith feels his heart melt at the beautiful sound he makes.

“I meant, do you play the piano?” the man asks, this time with a—robotic—finger pointing behind Keith’s back.

Keith turns around, as if he needs more confirmation that there is, indeed, a piano sitting behind him. “Oh, no,” he finally answers in a whisper. “I was just, um.” He clears his throat again, ducks his head to evade the man’s gaze. “I think I should go back.”

“Well…” the man starts, scratching the back of his head and looking down at his feet. “I’m not going to prevent you from heading back, but… I could teach you a bit. If you want.” He looks up to meet Keith’s eyes.

Keith sputters, trips on his own words, and groans. “Sorry about that,” he says, feeling heat slowly creep up into his cheeks. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

The man beams at him, almost as if a precious wish had been granted to him, and Keith doesn’t understand why he looks so happy.

“Not at all!” the man replies, and moves to sit down in front of the piano.

Slowly, Keith sits down next to him, watching the man’s every move as he begins to skate his deft fingers over the keys.

“This is an easy one,” the man says through a smile. “And it can be played in solo or in duo.”

Keith recognizes the melody—it takes him back to Seoul, when he was a child at music school, where his classmates who were learning the piano practised that song. He feels a smile pull involuntarily at his lips, but he doesn’t stop it.

And then he realizes that the man has stopped playing and is now looking at him with a strange expression.

“Everything alright?” he seems concerned.

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Keith says, shaking his head a little. “It’s just—” _your music takes me to places I’ve never been to, places I miss, places I wish I was at, places I don’t think exist and others that do exist but are deeply buried into my soul_ “—it’s nothing, really.”

The man looks at him for another moment, and then something in Keith’s expression must ease his doubts because he smiles again. “Alright. I’m sure you know the melody?”

“I do.” Keith breathes a smile.

The man grins. “Great, I can teach you the notes then…” he says and moves his metal hand towards Keith’s, which is sitting at the edge of the instrument. He stops midway, though, and begins pulling his hand back towards himself. “Ah, sorry…” Keith hums questioningly. “It’s just—some people get uncomfortable when I touch them with that hand,” the man explains, averting his gaze.

Keith frowns. “That’s rude of them.” The words come out of his mouth before he even thinks about them. The man turns to look at him with surprise in his eyes, mouth slightly ajar. “I don’t mind it at all,” Keith finishes.

“You—” the man begins. His mouth opens and closes, but inly incoherent sounds come out of it. “Oh whoa,” he chuckles while shaking his head, a warm smile pulling up the corners of his lips. “Thank you for that,” he says, gently grasping Keith’s hand in his and putting it over the keys.

“No problem,” Keith breathes, shivering a little at the contact with the cold metal which, somehow, transmits a beat of life from the man sitting beside him.

It takes him a moment to learn the order of the notes, and then the proper rhythm, but the man is kind and patient in his teaching and guides Keith with gentle hands until Keith grasps it all.

The sun sets slowly as they busy themselves with the melody. The birds are their only companions as the remaining leaves fall lazily from the trees, framing the picture of the two men sitting at the piano in a picture of calmness and peace.

When they finally get the melody to go they way it should, the man playing with two hands while Keith runs the fingers of one hand over the keys on his side, they wrap it up with a delighted gasp. Keith turns to look at the man, a wide smile splitting his face, and finds his expression mirrored in the face of the man beside him.

But when Keith turns his gaze up and behind the man's head, watching the light slowly disappear behind the edges of the buildings, he feels a slight ache in his chest at the thought of his pending Uni projects. "I... have to go take care of some things," he says, turning an apologetic gaze back to the man.

"Ah, yes." He nods in understanding. "It's late for me, too... but I think I'll stay for a while longer," he says, stroking the piano keys with unmatched fondness.

Keith gets up from the seat and turns to look at the man once more. "Thank you for—this," he whispers.

"It's a pleasure," the other replies, a gentle smile on his lips.

Back home, Keith studies for a while, certainly not thinking about the pleasant afternoon he spent learning the piano with the man from the park. When he's done for the night, he shoves his books into his backpack and prepares something to eat. Then he goes to bed and stares at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep.

“I forgot to ask his name,” Keith groans after a while, turning on his side and pulling to covers up to his chin.

✧✧✧

“Pidge, are you sure you can’t track anyone down based on their appearance?” Keith asks one afternoon, when practice is over and Pidge, he and Matt are relaxing together in the living room.

“I told you, I can’t do that,” Pidge replies, not bothering to look up from the tablet in their hands.

“But—how many people in the city have their hair shaved, except for a tuft of white hair over their forehead?”

Matt perks up, fingers stilling over the strings of his guitar. “Did you say ‘tuft of white hair’?”

Keith frowns a little. “Yeah?”

Setting his guitar down on its tripod stand, Matt sits up on his place on the floor and says, “I think I know who you’re talking about, but tell me more about them?”

It’s not that Keith’s heart somersaults in his chest, absolutely not. It only does a small backflip.

“Uh, well. He’s tall and has broad shoulders. He wears a gray wool coat?” he tries. He pauses for a moment, hesitating on what to say next. “Um… He has a—scar. On his nose. And also a—prosthetic—”

“A prosthetic hand?” Matt inquires.

“Yeah?”

Matt grins. “That’s Shiro!”

“Shi…ro…?”

“Takashi Shirogane,” Matt explains. “But he likes Shiro best. Anyway, where’d you meet him?”

“Wait, no. How do _you_ know him?” Keith asks, confusion seeping in his voice.

“We went to high school together. He was, and still is, a great pianist,” Matt says, turning his gaze far in front of him and smiling, as if reminiscing fond memories. “When we graduated, I went to college but Shiro enlisted himself. And—well, you can see that he’s not enlisted anymore…” Matt finishes with a small sigh.

“Oh.” Is everything that comes out of Keith’s mouth then.

“Yeah,” Matt says. He dismisses the slightly sad atmosphere with a vague gesture of his hand. “I think he’s doing fine, though. I’ve only seen him once since he came back, but he looks good?” Keith only nods at that. “I still don’t know where he lives though, so I can’t help you with that.”

“No worries,” Keith says, shaking his head.

“But _I_ can,” Pidge says. “I’ll let you know when I find anything.”

Keith looks at them, smiling. “You’ll do that for me?”

“Pff, sure. It’s easy.”

The house’s phone rings in the kitchen, and Matt springs to his feet to go get the call.

“Thanks,” Keith says. Although he’s not entirely sure why he feels so thankful for that small thing Pidge is willing to do for him.

“I’m curious, though. What’s with about Shiro that has you so like—this?” Pidge asks, waving a hand in Keith’s direction and squinting.

Keith clears his throat. “Well, Matt said he’s a good pianist. And I can tell you that what he says is right. And I just want to—I don’t know, get to know him better? Maybe we could get him to integrate our jam sessions, or something,” Keith says. But the more he rambles on, the harder Pidge squints. Keith struggles to swallow past the lump in his throat.

Matt’s voice coming from the kitchen is the only thing that fills the subsequent silence, and it seems like years have passed until Pidge speaks again, a questioning and doubtful tone in their voice. “I’ve only known you for two years, but I’ve never seen you like this.”

Keith feels a drop of sweat trickle down his back. “Y-yeah?”

Pidge hums, face upturned into a thoughtful and confused expression. “It almost seems like you’re—”

“Tired?” Keith cuts hastily, albeit a bit louder than he’d intended to. He laughs it off, rubbing a little at his eyes for show.

Pidge looks at him—scrutinizes him—for a while longer. “Maybe that’s it,” they finally say. “And in that case, you should go back home and get some sleep.”

And Keith obeys, happy to have a reason to get away from Pidge’s quickly guessing mind.

As he gazes at the ceiling of his room that night, though, he questions himself. What did his brain imply when it fed him with the idea that Pidge had “guessed” something? What had they possibly guessed, or be on the way to guess? What is it about Keith that’s hidden to his own self?

That slightly disturbing thought keeps Keith awake for a long while that night.

✧✧✧

The next morning, Keith wakes up feeling like a sack of bricks was dumped on his face while he slept. He was up until the early hours of morning, thinking about various things—namely, Shiro and the quickly-approaching finals period.

Slowly, he sits up on his bed and yawns, stretches his limbs and then drags his fingers over his face. And it isn’t until the grogginess is mostly gone that he realizes—

He’s late for class.

With a whispered curse, Keith jumps from his bed and opens his closet, choosing a random outfit and dressing himself in a hurry. He grabs a yogurt and an apple from the small refrigerator in the kitchen while shrugging on his coat and sloppily wrapping a scarf around his neck. When he tries to close the door outside he realizes that, one, his backpack is still by his bed and, two, his keys are inside his backpack. He storms inside his apartment, grabbing the items he needs, and quickly making his way out again.

Descending the stairs three by three, when Keith reaches the entrance he all but runs to the door. But the moment he twists the handle and pulls _hard_ , he realizes someone is already pushing the door open from the other side.

Keith would have ended up on the floor, with the combined force of the two people simultaneously opening the door plus Keith’s unsteady feet, were it not for a pair of hands quickly flying to grip his upper arms and keep him upright.

“I’m really sorry,” Keith mumbles, gaze turned down to the floor.

“Don’t worry, it’s no…thing… Uh?” the other person says slowly.

Keith recognizes that voice, and his eyes shoot up to meet the stranger’s—the pianist’s… _Shiro’s eyes._

Keith gapes, blinking a few times as his mind furiously tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. “Shiro…” Is what he manages to say.

Shiro’s expression reads utter confusion. (And also happiness? Joy? Keith doesn’t really know.) “You know my name.”

“Matt,” Keith offers. “Matt Holt.”

“That’s… not your name, I’m guessing?” Shiro asks. “I know Matt…”

Keith shakes his head. “He told me about you. He’s a friend of mine, too.” He watches Shiro’s mouth turn into an o, understanding. “And my name’s Keith.”

Shiro smiles. “Nice to meet you, Keith.”

Keith nods, unable to get other words out. “…Just, how,” he says after a while.

“I could ask you the same,” Shiro replies with a laugh. “I’m on the second floor, though. How about you?”

“Huh,” Keith hums, disbelieving—and yet it makes so much sense. “Third floor.”

“I see,” Shiro responds softly.

They gaze at each other for a while, smiling, taking in the fact that they’ve been aware of each other’s existence for almost a month without even realizing that they live in the same building.

After a moment, Keith’s phone rings with an incoming text message, and Shiro releases Keith and steps to the side. “Sorry, it seemed like you were in a hurry.”

Keith blinks, then remembers why he’s been running since he woke up and curses. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry—Uh, no. I mean, thanks. Yeah, I’m—I’m late for class. Thanks, and bye,” Keith mumbles hastily, not knowing if he’s making any sense at all, and turns towards the door.

He hears Shiro chuckle behind him. “Have a good day and…” Keith turns to look at him when he trails off without finishing. “See you later? Maybe?”

Keith blinks. And then a small smile pulls at the corners of his lips. “Yes.”

The image of Shiro—the pianist he met by chance at the park, the man who lives in the same building as Keith does, the man who makes Keith’s heart sputter and cough—smiling and waving at him doesn’t leave his thoughts as he rides the subway on his way to class.

He’s smiling at himself, thinking about “later”, when he remembers about the text message he received earlier.

**From: Pidge**

HE LIVES ONE FLOOR BENEATH YOU, YOU IDIOT

**Author's Note:**

> Please listen to [Hologram by Snowmine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKkUKdwvsVo)!! This song was a great inspiration for this fic, and I listened to it on repeat while I was writing. The title of the fic was borrowed from it, too:
> 
>  
> 
> _He watched her walk by everyday_  
>  _From his eighteenth floor apartment._  
>  _And while it’s been so long since he’d held a hand_  
>  _That he forgot just what it felt like_  
>  _To feel his **bones burning inside.**_
> 
>  
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ kuroosthighz & clara-wrote-once


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